If There Was Deception In Fanstasy
by Hihiou
Summary: He was not cut out for this. He always wished he was—in his dreams that were solely comprised of fantasy—but he could never be. In reality, the mutt in him was etched onto his soul, dyed even into the marrow of his bones. It was true what they said: if there existed something lower than low, it was Renji. But then again, he had never claimed to be anything else.


He had not realized his error until the tide of blood drowned his ears. In the beginning, instinct had told him that going against Byakuya Kuchiki was the most sensible action to take, as it felt like the right thing to do at the time. But how silly was Renji, to believe that he possessed even the slightest shred of sensibility to begin with. No, he must have gone mad at some point along the line, or otherwise he would never have raised his blade to this man that promised death in battle. Had he been in his right mind, he would have listened when the noble ordered him to stand down. The higher strata had the right to command their inferior beings, after all, and Renji had no right to mess with an order as legitimate as such.

But for some fanciful reason, he had believed that he had a chance to bring down as transient a figure as the one that loomed above him now. It was a notion worthy of ridicule in its most brutal sense. And so it was fairly predictable that he would find himself all but turned to dust by those pestersome blades. Renji almost would have laughed too, had it not been for the numerous gashes that seemed to make his breath short and eyes heavy. Maybe if he lay for a while longer, his body would find recluse and rest itself in a much needed slumber. Or perhaps his heart would have mercy on him and cease its beating altogether. Renji did not particularly care at this point, nor did he mind the condescending gaze that fell upon him. He was fairly used to Byakuya looking down at his mere existence, so his position was nothing new. Renji did not possess the will to be irritated any longer. All he ever wanted to do was save her.

"Can you comprehend the difference between us now? You are lower than I, and this pitiful quarrel is proof enough. You would have done better in staying out of the business regarding the Ryoka, Renji. But, as it seems, there is no possibility in undoing what has already been done."

That damned Ryoka. That one who was doing a better job of saving Rukia than Renji ever had the ability to. He could say that he had fought his captain for his own purposes, but in truth, it was for her. Everything he ever did in regards to his training was for her. Could he be blamed for pursuing such an unreachable aspiration? He had not thought so in the past. Maybe he was too naive in that sense. People always preached that hard work payed off, and for a while Renji fed right into that cruel lie. Until today.

He knew better now. He would not devote himself to a dream that would never come true again. And he would not expect to ascend from his lowly position beneath his captain's feet either. What he figured was that no matter what he achieved, Byakuya would always be ahead of him. In strength, in class, even in her admirations. That was what made him the most sick with himself; the fact that the girl with whom he grew up with could forget him so hastily. She would rather be the sister of the 28th head of the Kuchiki household, and Renji could not blame her.

Yes, it was time to stop believing in the fairy tale the he so desperately wished to play a part in. Renji was no prince. Rukia could never be his Snow White. Why hadn't he ever listened to his captain when he lectured that surpassing him was beyond the realms of possibility? Was he too blind by his own determination to catch sight of that fact? Indeed, Renji was truly the fool that his captain always labeled him to be. It had taken him a while to accept it though. A little too late. All this time, he had been riding on the hope that he was stronger, somehow. Oh, but what a miserable existence it was to work so very restlessly, just to have ones hopes blown away by the force of reality. Renji hated fairy tales in that sense. They made him yearn for something that could never be reached. Fighting this man was about as hopeless as trying to catch the wind, and by no means was Renji succeeding.

He felt the presence of a light material fall upon his back. He did not move to see what it was. It must have been that fancy little scarf the Byakuya always wore. How very kind of him indeed.

"Quite admirable. But you won't ever be able to cut me, Renji. I will not let you."

And that was all it took for Renji to give up all together. Every remaining shred of faith in him expired, and instead of that deep voice of his authority, he focused his hearing on the warm liquid that continued to fill his ears with crimson. What a tranquil noise it was, in this alarming field of war that they called soul society. For the very first time in his life, he wished nothing more than to be rid of the painful ache that he referred to as longing. Longing made all his failures more apparent. Longing made it hurt more as he reminisced on the days when all he had to fret over was how to go about stealing fruit from merchants. Why had he ever even cared to come to the Seireitei anyway?

Oh, yes. Because of her. She had wanted to, after all. Who was he to refuse her wish?

He reached his finger to his neck. The limbs trembled violently, though he dared not open his eyes to see how blood stained his skin had become. It hurt to move. His let his fingertips glide over his throat once more, and the stinging intensified.

_This is all some sick joke._

He was not cut out for this. He always wished he was—in his dreams that were solely comprised of fantasy—but he could never be. In reality, the mutt in him was etched into his soul, dyed even into the marrow of his bones. It was true what they said: if there existed something lower than low, it was Renji. But then again, he had never claimed to be anything else.

Fighting was useless now. It was a cruel game he could not hope to win. He remembered a time in the 11th Division when he enjoyed battle. There were no melancholy memories that bombarded their way into his thoughts when he served under the 11th. What happened? Fighting used to be the only thing that drove him, that kept his flame lit. But, he mused, life's gale of hardships had blown it out without hesitation. And as quickly as he had been blown out, all the will in him vanished. Now, as he looked back on his past, everything was all too clear. See, he always used to fight thinking that he was becoming brave enough to protect her, but he was wrong. With each time that he swung his blade, he only became more afraid. Afraid that he would lose her to this world. And it was now that the irony dawned upon him, because in the end, it was this wretched earth that had swallowed him whole instead.


End file.
